It's Hardly My Fault You Weren't Listening
by A Wholocked Vulcan
Summary: This is a short fic about Sherlock's past, mainly in the form of a drunken ramble. It's rated T for mentions of abuse, alcohol and drugs, but nothing graphic.


**A/N: hi. Thanks for trying one of my stories. I have taken great pains to piece together this tiny snippet of Sherlock's backstory. It's in the form of a drunken rant. I hope he's not too OOC,but then I guess everyone is when they're under the influence. If it sucks, please alert me immediately. If not, please comment/favorite!**

 _There are seventeen steps that lead to 221B, but to Sherlock the number only seems to grow as he staggers up the stairway. At last he stumbles through the doorway of his flat, which he muzzily decides should not be swaying._

"I think I've had too much to drink, John."

 _Sherlock's slurred words sound heavy and clumsy. He wonders if they're even real._

"You know, John Watson, sometimes I think you don't listen to me. Mycroft never did, either. But I have to keep talking or no one will hear me and so they won't listen to me, either. If people saw me like I saw them, then they'd be able to hear me and I wouldn't have to shout.

"But nobody really listens to me. I talk so bloody loud, but no one really cares. You put up with me. All the time. Everyone else just calls me 'freak'. But I _don't care, John!_ I don't care. Because I see and they observe...or - or something."

 _Sherlock's deductions are falling apart. The room looks like a first grader's art project. John's chair, usually brimming with information revealing new ways ways to embarrass/manipulate/understand John, is silent. He has a headache._

"My grandfather never listened, either. Well he did. Then he called me names. I don't like being called a freak. No one gets to say I'm not clever. I'm going to prove him wrong. Have I proved him wrong yet, John?

"My mother's taste in immediate family is absolutely hateful. As well as her taste in music. And just about everything else. I told her that her father was verbally abusing me. I told her it would mess up my head. I could deduce when people were abused. I knew that was going to me. And I was right, like I always am. I became a junkie to silence the voices in my head. The loudest was my grandfather's. He kept saying I wasn't clever. I had to shut him in the highest turret of my mind palace and lock it with a million locks. But the combination for each one was FREAK, and sometimes Donovan would let him out.

"But Mother wouldn't listen. How could someone pay so much attention to you and bake you so many cookies and still think everything you said was just a made-up story? She said I was just sensitive and my grandfather was just grumpy. I shouldn't have been so smart. I thought people were supposed to be smart.

"Mycroft was no help at all. He came into my room at nights, back when I still cried. He consoled me. It was hateful. He never got bullied by anyone. Too smart. Too polite. Too cowardly.

"One such night he told me, 'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. It'll only hurt you, and even the benefits are temporary. Let go, and you shall never hurt again.'

"He has repeated that mantra to me ever since. Caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage... over and over and over again.

"My brother, despite his efforts to numb my pain, never did anything to prevent the blows from being dealt. He wanted to keep himself safe. Oh, he cares now. I see his desperate guilt every time I look in his eyes, or his shoes. But it's too late now; there is no such thing as only a child.

"I remember when Redbeard died. I haven't been able to delete it yet. He was hit by a car. I wanted to take legal action against the driver, but Daddy said no. Mycroft detests animals and didn't see the point in having a funeral for one. I was the only reason he put on a tie for a dead dog. He chanted, 'what did I tell you about caring, brother mine?' for the whole day. I wish I had Redbeard now. He listened..."

 _Sherlock's eyelids fall like curtains after the final act of a play. The show's over, and Sherlock doesn't dream._

 _He awakens as John ascends the last stair. John jingles his keys and bursts through the door. Sherlock deduces that he's had a night out with Mary, but it gives him a splitting headache to do so. Sherlock scowls._

"You're late."

"Sherlock, we didn't have anything planned."

"We didn't I seem to remember telling you a great deal last night."

"Oh, Sherlock, you do that sometimes. I wasn't there last night."

 _No, he couldn't have been. He was with Mary._

 _So who was Sherlock talking to last night?_

 _The shadows on the wall. An empty chair._

"Well, it's hardly my fault you weren't listening."

 _Some lies are so easy to tell._


End file.
